Manager's Guilt
by secretsmiling
Summary: The repercussions of that fatal night touched all people involved in the opera's recent past. A manager relives the panic of the aftermath of 'Don Juan'. Sometimes, it is the thought of your part played in something bigger that hurts the most.


**Manager's Guilt**

Christine Daaé was gone, snatched before their very eyes from the stage. He just kept seeing her falling, costumes billowing as if blown by a distant wind, body tangled with the dark shadow's. As she plunged into bowels of the theatre, her eyes had tried to find her nobleman's - pleading and desperate, begging for some kind of reassurance when there was none to give her. That had been hours ago now.

He remembered the turmoil of his office, his actions running solely on adrenaline. He could almost recall the searching questions of the commissary of police word for word, just as he could see his probing eyes scanning the worried faces. It seemed as though everyone in the cast had come to the managers for some sort of comfort, though they had none to give. The corridors had been filled with chorus members, shivering now they were no longer in the warmth of the auditorium. Dancers were clutching each other fearfully, as though they too were about to be ripped from reality by a ghost, wiping their eyes on the ribbons they had torn from their hair. The stagehands appeared to be the most sensible, taking orders directly from the police and acting as replacement ushers for ones who had been overcome.

Utter pandemonium had taken over, as he stood in the doorway, surveying what he had once thought was his kingdom. He numbly remembered the calm and serenity of his first visit to see his new rooms: natural light pouring in from a nearby window; arranging his furniture; straightening his pens on his desk; thinking how wonderful his new start was set to be. Now, it all seemed ridiculous.

_Still, those frantic eyes haunted his mind__…__ she was falling__…_

It had amazed him that the Vicomte was so very determined to find Mademoiselle Daaé. As everyone told him it was impossible, casting him pitying looks, he kept his faith. He was unwavering in the strength of his convictions she would still be found alive. He had left Andre to look after their patron but he had doubted Monsieur de Chagny would receive any support from someone so moved. The man had been frozen in grief and horror as his investment had come crashing down around his ears. A business could not have been as finished as this one without it having burnt down to cinders.

Consciously, a line entered his mind and he was sure it would haunt him for the rest of his days. _Here, the sacrificial lamb utters one despairing bleat__…_Had she not begged not to be put through the ordeal? It was as if she had known what was to come. She had been desperate not to meet the destiny they had all forced upon her but no one would listen to her cries. They had called her protestations not following her contract, ramblings of a disturbed woman, stuff and nonsense about the unknown figure. The only thing they had cared for was the money the scandalous show would bring in. They had sacrificed her for their greed, sold her life to line their pockets.

The very idea they had thought up when she had disappeared the first time burned him inside. "Any publicity is good publicity," they had said, smiling at the audiences they were drawing, basking in the popularity like a warm bath. Below the surface, _she_ had been tormented by the ghost, taken - for all they knew, by force - away from all that she knew. They had profited from her fright and pain and she must have been terrified.

As he walked with the commissary, they passed a better-lit corridor, light bouncing harshly off a mirror. Automatically, he had turned away; he hadn't even been able to stand looking at himself.

_She was falling again, her and the masked figure__…__ those eyes__…_

"Richard?"

Firmin jumped, startled out of his reverie by his wife. Her expression cut through him like glass – the deep concern embedded in her features pained him more than she would ever know. Backlit by a small lamp, her pretty blonde curls looked even more golden, his very own angel. He shivered. The word burned him inside. What right had he to a beautiful, loving wife? Had he not just stolen this chance for his patron? What right had he to have forced someone to lay down their life for him, for that musical abomination?

She seemed to have read his thoughts. Kneeling down, she lifted his head, cupping it in her delicate hands, looking into the eyes that strained to get away.

"Richard, you are not to blame for this terrible, terrible event. You did not physically force Mlle Daaé out onto that stage to perform,"

Moments later, she could see the guilt in his expression, in the hot tears he tried desperately to conceal from her. He turned, wiping them away quickly, before rising.

"Elodie," he said, in an unconvincingly calm voice, in back still facing her. "It has been a long day and I feel it best that you retire. I will be along shortly-"

"No more,"

His wife walked around to the front of his chair, took one of his hands, and led the unresisting man to their room.


End file.
